


A Simple Equation

by Kerkerian



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Deviates From Canon, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-07-26 22:28:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7592668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kerkerian/pseuds/Kerkerian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It doesn't take a madman to make John and Sherlock see they belong together, but his emergence certainly helps things along.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Simple Equation

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.
> 
> Due to the SDCC trailer, I'm in a total Sherlock hype right now, and as a result, this happened. I just needed the two of them together now, since it's still such a long time till January... =)
> 
> Relevant tags will be added as we go along.

 

John Watson wearily climbs the stairs up to 221B; he's been out with Mike Stamford, which hasn't happened in a rather long time. Since they had a lot to catch up on, it has gotten late; the flat is dark, therefore John tiptoes to the bathroom and back before he notices that Sherlock apparently has fallen asleep on the sofa and doesn't seem to have heard him at all.

John stands in the near darkness for a while, just listening intently until he can hear Sherlock's breathing. All seems well in the world if Sherlock is at peace, and somehow, 221B is more of a home when he's there. It also makes John's neck prickle and the small hairs on his arms stand on end, but it's only in these quiet hours of the night that he allows himself such thoughts. He wants Sherlock with an intensity that nearly hurts him physically, but since he's not self-destructive, he strictly forbids himself to dwell on it most of the time. It isn't easy and by Jove, there are moments during which he doesn't know how he does it, but somehow, he's managing. And he wouldn't for the world dream of moving out, no matter what and despite Sherlock's sometimes erratic moods. His life still turned for the better the moment he met the consulting detective, and he intends to keep what he has and also what he can't have.

 

Unable to subdue a smile at the thought of a sleeping Sherlock, John silently pads into the living room and turns on a small lamp; if the man hasn't woken up from the sounds of running water in the bathroom a little earlier, he won't wake from the rather dim light. He will however appreciate a blanket, since it's April and the nights are still cold.

To John's surprise, Sherlock is wearing his coat and is lying huddled into it on his side, legs drawn up, hands tucked into the sleeves, face hidden by the collar. Immediately, John's inner alarm goes off. He crouches down in front of the sofa to have a better look and cautiously peels the fabric back a bit. Dismayed, he stares at the bruise which is blooming on Sherlock's left temple and cheekbone before he decides to investigate further: it requires quite a bit of gentle shaking until Sherlock comes to.

He blinks, squinting at his friend: “John?” He sounds genuinely confused and much younger than his actual years.

“Sorry to wake you,” John replies softly, for a moment wishing he could run his hand through Sherlock's hair, “but you look as though you've had an accident. What happened?”

Sherlock blinks a few more times, obviously not quite alert yet, then he groans and slowly pushes himself up into a sitting position: “Wasn't an accident,” he murmurs, closing his eyes again for a moment as though he is dizzy.

“Care to elaborate?”

Sherlock hesitates:“Do you remember how we decided not to go after the limping man?”

John groans in comprehension: “Tell me you didn't!”

Sherlock doesn't quite manage to look contrite: “I had to when I realized that we made a mistake. You see, he isn't working for the Chinese anymore, he d-”

“What happened?” John interrupts him, frowning.

“I was just telling you!”

“I don't want to hear the whole story right now,” John clarifies, “it's too late and I've had a few beers. I just want to know how you came to look like this.”

Sherlock stares at him defiantly for a moment: “Fine,” he then all but snaps, “the limping man wasn't exactly happy about my visit. Surprisingly, he doesn't live alone either. Fisticuffs ensued.”

John snorts, against his will amused: “Fisticuffs?”

“You wanted the short version, I deemed the term as sufficiently enlightening.”

John isn't aware that he's smiling as he's looking at Sherlock now, eyes warm and full of affection as he beholds his friend's battered appearance: “Okay. I'd like to get a better look at you.”

“I'm fine.”

“Three things: you look awful, you slept in your coat and it took you rather long to wake up, I'd rather make sure you don't have a concussion, or worse.”

Sherlock's scowl doesn't look convincing; he knows when he's lost a battle, and with John, like this, it's bearable.

He can still feel the other's gaze, warm and strangely reassuring, as he slowly gets up in order to follow him to the bathroom; he pauses though, momentarily too dizzy to proceed and also glad that John doesn't see that he's swaying ever so slightly.

 

John has already gotten the first aid kit out when Sherlock enters the bathroom; the detective is unsteady on his feet and clearly relieved when he can sit down on the clothes chair after taking off his coat and jacket. Despite a lingering pain in his wrist he refrains from asking John for help with the shirt buttons; he doesn't want to appear entirely helpless.

John examines Sherlock's eyes, then gently palpates his torso and limbs, concentrating on the task as though it were any other patient. It's only when he checks Sherlock's scalp and in the process unexpectly does get to run his fingers through the soft, dark curls, that he feels his own heartbeat exelerate. He swallows a few times, but Sherlock for once doesn't seem to notice it. He has closed his eyes, unable to subdue a shiver as he feels John's fingers on his neck, the proximity of his body. John's scent is everywhere, tremendously calming, making Sherlock forget about the numerous small aches and his dizziness. Confusingly, being this close to John, being touched by him in such a downright intimate way is enough to induce dizziness of another kind.

When John stops and straightens up at one point, Sherlock is almost disappointed. But John picks up Sherlock's right hand: “I'll need to treat these abrasions,” he says, at the same time noticing a slight wince. Cautiously, he rotates the wrist and elicits a sharp hiss: “Sprained, then,” he murmurs. “I hope it was worth it.”

Sherlock blinks: “Oh, yeah. I managed to get a few good punches in.”

“And you got a few good ones in return. Along with a few kicks, if I deduced that correctly.”

Sherlock prefers not to answer this; it will rankle for quite some time.

“At least nothing's broken,” John says as he bandages the wrist; Sherlock is glad that his friend is not berating him.

He gently cleans the abrasions on Sherlock's hand, which stings a little, and Sherlock can't subdue another delicate shiver as John cautiously manipulates his fingers in order to make sure they're okay.

 

“Do you want some painkillers?” he asks once he's done.

“No,” Sherlock says tiredly, “I'll just sleep.” He does indeed look knackered and far too vulnerable for John's taste as he looks at his doctor now, but there is something else as well; gratitude for John's help, maybe, or for not being alone right now.

John wishes he could touch Sherlock again, or even lie down with him, hold him and make sure he's okay. As it is, he just helps him into the old shirt he sleeps in, then returns to the bathroom to clear away the first aid kit; all is quiet in Sherlock's room. With a sigh, John reaches for his toothbrush.

 

 

 

A few months later, John thinks back to that night, to how it felt to slowly work his fingers through Sherlock's hair, and feels despair welling up in him. He isn't afraid of dying, at least if it's quick, but he realizes that he doesn't want to miss out on Sherlock. He wants a second chance, the option to try again and tell Sherlock how he feels about him. Because there have been moments, small and fleeting but undeniable, which have made him reconsider; he isn't so sure about Sherlock's married-to-my-work issue anymore, there may in fact have been some rethinking on his friend's side as well. Only now they might never find out, because the madman they're dealing with seems to mean business, and John doesn't see how they might get out of this situation. There's been a silent understanding between Sherlock and him just now; he is still breathing rather heavily but tells himself to focus on Sherlock, who looks ethereal and solemn as he stands there, training his gun only fleetingly on Moriarty but then lowers it to aim at the explosives. If he shoots the vest, John will have to catapult himself into the pool and pull Sherlock with him; how he is supposed to do that when he doesn't even think he can stand yet is beyond him. He only knows that he trusts Sherlock and that he wants to survive, wants to touch Sherlock again despite his rather stupid quip about the detective ripping his clothes off in a darkened swimming pool just now; nerves, he thinks. Just nerves. Concentrate on what's happening, he tells himself. Be prepared.

Miraculously, the moment never comes; instead, Moriarty's phone goes off, and somehow, that does seem to resolve the situation for now. It is a tad ridiculous to have been saved by the BeeGees, John thinks a while later in the cab home, but he's so relieved that he doesn't really dwell on the matter. He looks at Sherlock instead; he is staring ahead unseeingly, flexing his fingers in a way that betrays his discomposure. John lets him be. Back in 221B, he puts the kettle on even though it's the middle of the night, and makes a pot of strong black tea. To his surprise, Sherlock, who's been pacing up and down the living room, sits down at the kitchen table with him. He avoids John's gaze: “I'm sorry, John.”

John stares at him; he has never heard Sherlock apologizing for anything.

“For what?” he asks, just to say something.

“I underestimated him.” Sherlock's voice is low. “Everything which happened today... my fault.”

“Yeah, well,” John tries to lighten the mood, “I probably owe Sarah an explanation.” A certain part of him is angry at Sherlock for lying and putting both of them at risk, but for now, he doesn't have the energy to bring it up. And the elation he felt after it became clear that they were out of danger is still there, wants to be used for something.

Sherlock runs a hand through his hair at that, bringing John back to his earlier train of thoughts and providing an opener.

“Poor Sarah,” he says, feeling as though he's venturing into unknown territory,“I really should apologize to her.”

Sherlock doesn't appear to have heard him: “He isn't a gambler,” he mutters, “he only pretends to be. He needs to be in control throughout, hence the sharpshooters.”

John clears his throat; a detour seems necessary.

“Would you have shot the vest?” he asks, pouring him some tea.

Sherlock looks uncertain: “Probably,” he replies. And to John's astonishment, the hand which he wraps around the mug is trembling, if ever so slightly.

“Thank you,” John says quietly. “For making sure I was okay and taking the vest off of me before going after him.”

Sherlock seems surprised: “Why wouldn't I? You're my... friend.” There's a nearly inaudible hesitation before the last word which almost makes John cringe.

“I know you care about me,” he says. “Just as I care about you.”

They look at each other for a seemingly endless moment before simultaneously averting their gazes.

“I do,” Sherlock's voice is very soft now, very deep. The moment in which John entered the swimming pool nearly had Sherlock's heart stop. When he realized that John had been abducted and was being used by Moriarty, he could have sung, but at the same time, he was terrified; John wasn't supposed to be in danger, he wasn't even supposed to be present.

“I do,” he repeats as softly, looking at John again, “that's why I'm sorry. I... I can't have anything happen to you.”

John's ears turn pink: “Why?” he all but whispers.

“You're precious to me.” Sherlock blushes as well, a rare occurence.

“Because I buy the milk and bring my gun if I think it's wise?” It's supposed to a joke, but it comes out all squeaky and wrong.

“No, John.” Sherlock sounds a bit choked. “You're... if he had hurt you tonight, I don't know what I'd done.”

For a moment, John can only hear the blood rushing in his ears and his own accelerated heartbeat.

“Same here,” he replies. “But... you and I... the first time at Angelo's you said-”

“I take it back.” Sherlock closes his eyes for a moment. “You asked me if I had a boyfriend and I said I considered myself married to my work and while I was flattered by your interest, I wasn't really looking for a relationship. That was before I got to know you, John. I take it back.” His voice gives out.

At a loss of what to say next, John and he regard each other, then John gets to his feet and walks around the table. Wordlessly, he reaches for Sherlock's hands, kissing each one: “At first, it was only a crush,” he says hoarsely. “I saw you there in the lab and I found you attractive, but nothing more.” He smiles at Sherlock: “But then I was living with you... and it was impossible not to fall in love with you, each day a bit more.” When he squeezes Sherlock's hand, the other squeezes back, speechlessly, his eyes a tad moist maybe, or it could simply be his fatigue.

“Even though you're angry at me when I fail to be empathic?” Sherlock asks.

“Yes. You may not have noticed it, but I'm not perfect either.” John is still smiling.

Now it's Sherlock who pulls John closer, who leans forward until their foreheads touch and their breaths mingle: “Yes, you are,” he murmurs, sending a shudder down John's spine. “You are.”

 

TBC

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. I'm not a Native English speaker, therefore I apologize for any mistakes.


End file.
